Bad Mistakes (I've Made A Few)
by Dispatchvampire
Summary: Two snipers, both alike in dignity, or something like that. A meet cute goes terribly awry when Tim stops by a bar for a drink and a game of pool and runs into Clint. The passion is hot and heavy while the bullets fly. (SLASH)


_**Author's Notes:**__ Not sure what happened here. I was watching a Tim/Raylan video from the Justified fandom, and my mind immediately jumped to shipping him with Clint. I'd say I'm ashamed except these two sassy human disasters have a fair bit in common and are both in need of some romantic attentions. This was fun to write and there are a couple cameos from other fandoms (NCIS:NOLA and In Plain Sight). Oh, and the mood board was all me, with picture credit going to their varying photographers._

Didn't matter what city he was in, all dive bars looked about the same at 1:30am. There were the regulars holding up the bar or pretending to watch the game as they marinated their livers, the loners killing time until it was socially acceptable to make a bad decision worse, and of course, the guys shooting pool either because they were good at it or because they had no problem lightening their wallets. Loud enough to keep conversations sparse and drinking at the forefront. His kinda place.

This was where Tim Gutterson found himself on a Friday night after a few hours on a plane from Lexington. He'd hit the hotel the Marshal's Service had chosen for him, but that was just to drop off his stuff before he could disappear into the fabric of a town he only saw on Memorial Day for his annual pilgrimage to drink heavily in Arlington Cemetery. Sometimes living on was a bigger bitch than advertised.

In town for a weeklong protection detail as a sniper, he didn't have to report until the following day, but there was nothing on the books that said he couldn't hit town a little early and reconnoiter or some such shit. And by 'reconnoiter', he meant 'drink until his liver repents and then two or three more for good measure.' Oh, he'd still be good for the job, he could shoot a rifle in his sleep, but the alcohol would definitely render the District tolerable.

Sipping a beer or three on a barstool off to the side with a good line of sight for the door and the rest of the joint, he watched a tall, blond drink of water work his way through a long line of volunteer victims at the pool table. He normally wasn't one to ogle a man in a place like this, but from his semi-secluded spot in the corner under a flickering neon beer sign, he figured he was safe enough that it wouldn't harm anything.

The guy was up at least a couple hundred bucks, taking their money cheerfully and without boasts. He's just a guy giving a clinic instead of playing a game. And damn but the guy was pretty.

Tall with spikes of wheat blond hair that went a little bit of everywhere in a way that was both artful and likely unintentional, on the honed and carved side of thin with a sleeveless purple shirt that showed off his sexy arms and chest, and jeans tight enough that his palms itched with the urge to explore. That ass should not be legal. "You want next?"

The playful voice derailed his train of thought, obviously so immersed in his musings about the hottie at the pool table he missed the end of the game and said hottie addressing him directly. "Who, me?" It was more a stalling tacting than a question while his brain took a second to catch up to the moment at hand instead of getting lost in the bottle glass blue eyes and obscenely sensual pink lips smirking in his direction.

The man methodically attended to the tip of the pool cue with a small cube of blue chalk, a tiny smile curling his lips and a slight flush to his cheeks. Blinking slowly, he made a show of taking in the area around them. "No one else here," he answered, voice soft, raspy, like velvet against skin.

"Sure." Tim's boots hit the ground as he stood, feeling both the challenge and like a bit of diversion may be just what he needed. Grabbing a cue from the rack on the wall, he checked it for warping, settling on the fourth one he found before casually sidling up to the table and taking the chalk from his opponents outstretched hands. "What's the buy in?"

"I'll go easy on you and make it $20."

Tim winked as he took his wallet was out with a bill folded neatly beneath the chalk. "You're too kind." He was absolutely not leisurely perusing his ass as the man bent over the table to shag the free balls and corral them into the rack on the felt. "You wanna break or you want me to?"

Blondie licked his lips as he smiled indulgently, a hand out as the picture of magnanimity. "By all means." His arms were art, all perfectly defined biceps, tris, and forearms. It wasn't a stretch at all to imagine them holding him up against the wall, and… yeah. Okay, so maybe his libido had hit a bit of a dry spell but damn if this guy didn't look like rain.

The quick peek of his tongue over his lips shot a streak of heat straight through him, but Tim ignored it for the battle in front of him. He was here to play, but he wasn't here to lose, and something told him his new friend was going to regret offering him the opening.

* * *

In a night full of lackluster beer and the occasionally decent pool-player, Clint had been bored. A bored Clint is a dangerous Clint, or at least once prone to some sketchy impromptu decision-making. Even though he knew he should hang it up and get a couple hours sleep before the job he had to do in the morning—the one he'd come to town specifically to do—the moment this new distraction had walked in the door, he knew his night had taken a turn.

No one shows up this late in the evening without a bit of mischief in mind. There were rules, after all. His hope, and to be fair his dick's hope, was that their definitions of mischief would line up enough to benefit them both.

From his barstool perch next to the wall, Clint watched the man with the tousled, shaggy brown hair as he approached the head of the table, all long legs and swagger. He was about 6', wiry but muscular with forearms that challenged the integrity of the rolled up sleeves of his open black button down and the bearing of someone who'd spent a fair bit of time in the sandbox answering to Uncle Sam's call. He could fill out a pair of jeans, though, sinfully well.

In truth, he'd spotted him when he'd come in the bar, noticing the newcomer both for his out-of-place vibe as well as his inherent hotness. Local cop or Fed, he couldn't tell, but then, he also really didn't care: the gun discreetly holstered at the small of his back was a dead giveaway. In Clint's line of work, it paid to be wary, even as he eye-fucked him a little bit. This wasn't his neighborhood local, or Brooklyn, or someplace he could disappear fairly easily if necessary, so mindful was better than the alternative.

The break was authoritative, strong, with quite a bit more oomph than he was accustomed to this late at night in a dive bar on the outskirts of Georgetown. No less than two balls fell and the way the guy licked his lips while surveying the table damn near made him purr.

"Nice leave," he murmured around a sip from his bottle, hoping to cover for his suddenly flushed face and breathless voice.

Mr. Hotness rolled a shoulder in a bored shrug and drawled, "My ball-handling ability has never been in question."

Clint's bottle of beer settled hard against the table next to him after it slipped out of his fingers from the shock of the unexpected flirtation in the unreasonably sexy southern twang. "I'll take your word for it," he replied as soon as he picked his jaw up off the floor. He'd been debating the merits of flirting with this stranger, so the shot across the bow was definitely an eye-opener, in the best possible way.

"Too much?" The man asked with a wicked smirk over his shoulder as he stretched out over the table to check the angles for a highly intricate combo.

"No such thing," he answered honestly, enjoying the banter while marveling at his luck. Finding someone hot who seemed to enjoy flirting back was rarer than a four leaf clover.

"Good." His opponent winked then tapped the corner by Clint with the tip of the pool cue. "Three rails and corner pocket."

Clint snorted, both in disbelief and a bit of arousal at the brashness the other man showed, giving way to downright impressed as he not only made the shot, but left himself lined up perfectly for his next. "Jesus." This was the first promising adversary he'd had all night in addition to being the sexiest. Competence got to him Every. Single. Time.

Running his fingers through his unruly, dark hair, the man at the table had a cocky grin that was all teeth and dimples. "I'd like to think I'm better lookin', but okay."

That accent was doing _things_ to Clint and making his jeans just a bit too tight to be comfortable. Deep and maybe a little laconic, tinged with a Southern cadence and flavor. "You're not from around here." He wasn't sure if it was a question or a statement as it tumbled past his lips. He was admittedly terrible at small talk, but that accent was hitting his brain like the pornographic version of an etch-a-sketch, all thoughts wiped but still desperately turned on.

The brunet lifted his head and winked at him as he nailed a no-look bank shot into the side pocket, that was so pretty Clint damn near teared up. "Neither are you." He circled the table to plot his next move, down to one solid and the eight ball.

"Fair." He dipped his head, mesmerized by the skill on display as the man made another shot and lined up for the killing blow. The way his ass looked as he bent low to line up his shot, he wasn't even mad about it. It was over in an instant and he never even got to step up to the table.

The waitress came around and collected their bottles as she informed them of last call, and Clint knew what he had to do. Sauntering up to the man who'd (turned him on so completely) beaten him soundly, he stuck out a hand with his winnings in it. "Damn fine game."

He quickly stuffed the cash in his wallet before shaking the archer's hand with a shy grin. "Thanks."

"I'm Clint." He was already in for a penny, right?

The man hung his cue up on the wall and cocked his head to the side, regarding him with a flirty grin. "Nice to meet you. Tim."

Feeling the warmth of the other man's hand, calloused fingertips and sure grip, he decided to just go for it. "You wanna get outta here?"

Tim blinked slowly as a truly naughty grin unfurled across his lips. "I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

_Dear Penthouse..._ he laughed at himself even as his head slammed back against the wall, this was the kind of shit that happened to Raylan. He'd never been one to just meet someone and immediately find some dark corner to indulge their baser inclinations. Maybe the cowboy was rubbing off on him, and not in the way he'd anticipated.

Tim certainly never expected to meet a hot Fed—the gun on his hip carefully disguised by the rumpled t-shirt kind of advertised, and nothing about him at all said 'local boy'—much less end up in the alley behind the bar deliciously smothered by a solidly muscular body while his mouth devoured him from the inside out. The brick bit into the thin cotton of his shirt as he finally—_finally_—got his hands on that perfectly shaped ass. Fingers digging into the muscle with just the right amount of give making the blond gasp as he buried his face in the crook of his neck.

"Fuck," Clint breathed in his ear as he slotted his thigh between Tim's, strong hands on his hips lifting him against the wall to grind considerable stiffness against him. "Tim, I want…" Plush lips soft and wet against the stubble on his jaw, biting kisses that trail back to his lips, needy moans muffled by the lips fused to his own.

"Yeah…" he panted dropping his head back to the wall behind him, not quite sure what he just agreed to, but the way the other man was palming his cock over his jeans had him ready to go along with just about anything he suggested. The way Clint whimpered as he sank to his knees on the ground in front of him damn new melted him on the spot, as his belt and jeans fell open in record time.

Clint looked at him like he was the first meal he'd had in weeks as he dipped his fingers past the crinkled waistband of his boxers. Painfully hard, Tim couldn't hold back the hiss of pleasure as Clint's sure and steady hand wrapped around his cock and stroked him from base to tip.

For a second his conscience reminded him that in addition to sorely embarrassed and likely prosecuted, he stood a very real chance of being fired from the Marshal's Service if they got caught, not to mention the absolutely legendary ass-chewing he'd receive from his boss, Art. At least, it crossed his mind right before Clint shoved his boxer briefs down to his thighs and attempted to swallow him whole.

Threading his fingers through the spikey blond hair, Tim groaned softly as Clint's tongue worked its magic massaging his cock as his head bobbed on the thick shaft. The tiny little purrs and whimpers at the back of his throat vibrated around the sensitive flesh, stealing the breath from his lungs and setting his skin ablaze. He was a flame, an ember, the pleasurable sensations branding themselves along his nerve endings and leaving him whimpering, whining, a barely verbal mess skating along the razor's edge of need.

"Please, _jesus fuck please_, Clint…" his words failed as glistening blue eyes gazed up at him. His breath hitched as the man on his knees swallowed around the tip of his cock, taking him all the way down to the root. There were no words, a keening wail covered by his own shirtsleeve, leaving him wrung out and wrecked, just beyond the reach of the neon lights and the social mores that would have otherwise constrained them.

Rolling nimbly to his feet, Clint braced a hand on the wall next to his head, leaning down to take his lips again, the taste of his cum filthy on his tongue as they wound around each other like they had all the time in the world now. And maybe they did. Work would be done in the morning, but for now, they had the night and honestly, he was good with that.

"So," he drew the word out as his fingertips wandered over the intricately carved landscape that was Clint's chest and abs on his way to the button of his jeans. "You have someplace we can go where I can return the favor?"

"As a matter of fact…"

* * *

"Aw coffee, yes" Clint moaned as he all but assaulted the industrial three-pot coffee machine in the tiny the Federal courthouse break room, filling up his travel mug and pounding it down in a few healthy gulps before pouring himself another. It was going to be that kind of day. Would it look bad if he came to his seat with his mug and a couple more cups besides? Does he really care, is the real question.

God damn, but last night was incredible. His knees were still mad about the concrete alley shenanigans, but the cause had been righteous, and watching Tim come apart because of his lips and tongue was beyond hot. Everything that came after was the kind of thing that needed a dedicated Pornhub channel, and damn if he wasn't pleased about it. Thank Thor he was flexible.

Even better, he was staying at the same hotel, so instead of having to grab an Uber back home when he left, all Clint had to do was make it down to his floor. He was proud of the couple hours sleep he'd managed to get in, but the day was going to be long and goddammit, he was out of coffee again. Before he could snag another refill, though, he saw everyone filing into the dimly lit press room and figured he should follow suit.

It was alphabet soup in the courthouse today, with guns from the FBI, USMS, NCIS, and several other lettered agencies crowded down the aisles, stuffing themselves in rows of seats way too small to accommodate their frames and their sidearms, and so far, he'd only seen one person he recognized from an joint-op FBI in Louisiana. Unfortunately the seat next to her was taken, as were most of the ones in the first few rows, leaving him to scramble into one of the open spots in the next to the last row closest to the exit. Good thing he sees better from a distance. He hated sitting with his back to the door, but this was probably the safest place on the planet to do so outside of Avengers Tower.

"Allright, if someone would get that door, we'll start." The man at the head of the press room in front of the projection screen was the kind of tall Clint normally associated with Steve. Regal, commanding, with short dark hair, sharp, hawkish features and the kind of no-nonsense expression he figured came standard once your security clearance got high enough, he wore a flatteringly tight navy blue t-shirt with 'POLICE' emblazoned in gold on the front and a pair of jeans that would have been noteworthy in their aesthetic merit on any other occasion.

Not that he was lusting after the SAC. Really. Jesus, one night of extracurricular entertainment and he'd clearly lost his damn mind. He needed more coffee, desperately.

"I'm Deputy Chief Marshall Mann of the Marshal's Service, and I'm coordinating the security detail for the _United States v. Anselmo_." Clint's tiny snort of amusement at the unfortunately named Marshal touched off a ripple of amused snickers through the room, but the man just took it in stride with a bored smile and an eyeroll that suggested this wasn't the first time. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Laugh it up. When I asked your agencies for their best sharpshooters, they sent me you chuckleheads. I feel like I should do a better job of masking my disappointment, and yet…"

Clint choked back a chuckle. Alright, this guy? This guy he could work for, no problem. Confident but not cocky, he had an air of competence and no-bullshit attitude that reminded him a great deal of Phil.

The briefing was thorough, a protection detail for a hotly contested federal court case with numerous credible threats against the witnesses involved. Packets full of potential suspects were handed out for study, pictures and dossiers of potential targets projected onto the screen as well as identifying features. As far as jobs went, it was pretty standard, room full of heavy hitters notwithstanding.

When they broke for lunch, Clint had his head down finishing up his notes when he was shoulder checked, hard, strewing the dossier packet on the floor all around him and sending his coffee mugs, plural, rolling out into the aisle.

"Aww, paperwork, no…" he all but whined, seeing the last of his life-elixir drain out of the clearly misnamed 'spill-proof' lid and onto the carpet. Not that anyone could tell the difference really for the years of wear and stains already present, but he would know and mourn accordingly. Right after he got another few cups in him.

"Are you sure you're an acrobat? Because you are damn clumsy."

Even in his pouting over his dissipated beverage, that voice made him smile. "I have no idea how you manage to be both sunshine and a pain in my ass, and yet here we are."

"It's a gift." Special Agent Tammy Gregorio beamed at him before pulling him in for an exuberant hug. With her long curly dark hair and big dark eyes, she was easily one of the most beautiful women he'd ever met, and that had been only because she'd wanted Tasha's phone number. In her uncharacteristically casual Yankees cap and ponytail combo with her fitted navy shirt and jeans, he could see the eyes of the other male agents tracking them with abject jealousy. "How in the hell are you, Barton?"

"Doin' alright. How's the FBI been treating you?" He collected his belongings quickly into his rucksack and tossed the extraneous cups in the trash.

"Eh…" she grimaced, clearly looking for the polite answer, not that he blamed her given their surroundings, the walls had surveillance equipment in addition to eyes and ears. "It's a long story. How's about we talk about it over lunch?"

The Brooklyn in her voice warmed his heart and gave him a sense of home, not that he'd tell her that for fear of catching a fist to the jaw. She wasn't exactly the touchy-feely type. Hiking his bag up over his shoulder, he held the door to the press room open for her. "You're buyin', I'm goin'."

Linking her arm through his, she laughed softly. "Come on then, I got a buddy waitin' for me downstairs."

"Oooh, is he hot?" He asked as they took the main staircase to the ground floor and out the front doors. One of the first things he and Tammy figured out about each other was their mutual disinterest in that side of things. With each other. He'd lusted after her partner at the time—an unreasonably sexy Polish-Jewish guy named Jubal… something—and she'd been in love with Natasha since the moment the redheaded Russian landed at Louis Armstrong Airport.

"He was the guy sitting next to me in the front row." At his clueless shrug, she rolled her eyes indulgently. "See for yourself."

Clint felt his heart drop for a moment and then race back up to lodge in his throat as his eyes followed her outstretched hand to the shaded park bench across the street. Sitting there, cool as you please in his sunglasses and well-worn jeans with his ankle resting on the opposite knee, was—

"Tim!" The brunet looked up the moment she called his name, and even behind his dark lenses, Clint could see the color drain out of his face and slip beneath the collar of his black t-shirt. "This is the guy I was telling you about. Clint Barton," she gestured to him, "this is Tim Gutterson with the Marshal's Service. He was a Ranger before he went Fed." Unsure of the protocol, Clint offered his hand because it was polite, and Tammy kept right on talking, oblivious to the tsunami of sexual tension that just flooded the immediate vicinity. "Tim, Clint's with SHIELD and he's also—"

"With the Avengers," Tim supplied, taking his hand as his lips twitched. "Good to meet you."

"Likewise." The touch of skin, so warm in the daylight felt so filthy and it was an act of sheer willpower that his cock remained in the SFW position with him so close. He even smelled good, dammit.

Tammy turned him loose with a satisfied grin and took off at a brisk pace. "Alright, so my favorite sushi bar is right around the corner…."

It was going to be a long week.


End file.
